


Crave

by samchandler1986



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: There’s a weight in his chest; a feeling he might once have called jealousy.[Prompt fic fill - a long one about hopper being jealous of bob the brain and confessing his feelings for Joyce]





	1. Worth

_I want you_

_And I always will._

_I wish I was worth…_

_But I know what you deserve -_ Oceans, Seafret

* * *

 

“Hey, Hop.”

He blinks, coming down from the cloud he’s occupying today.

“Hey.” She’s sitting on the bench outside Melvald’s, a neatly wrapped package of sandwiches on the seat. “Don let you out for lunch?”

“Yeah. You ok?”

“Uh, yeah. Busy.”

“Well, when are you not?” She wrinkles her nose, always a tell that she's teasing; indicating the scene of suburban tranquillity that is Hawkins' main drag on a sunny Tuesday. 

He burns to tell her what’s got him so distracted. It’s Joyce, after all. She knows better than anyone what it’s like: when the right thing to do gets so twisted up by circumstance it seems like madness from the outside. If anyone can offer advice on just how the hell he’s going to keep a kid safe and sane out there in the woods, it’s her.

“How’s Will?”

“Uh..” A frown for the first time, fingers straying to worry her bottom lip. “Nightmares still,” she offers. “We’re going to go back to the doctor in Chicago as soon as… well…” She angles her head back towards Melvald’s and he understands. As soon as she’s pulled enough double shifts to afford another session.

“You think it helps?”

She shrugs, hopelessly. “I don’t know,” she lies.  “But… what else is there? What else can I do?”

He takes the seat next to her on the bench. “There’s always Owens.”

“Owens?”

“Yeah. The new head of the lab—”

“I am not taking Will anywhere _near_ that place,” she says, recoiling. “Are you-are you _crazy_?”

“Maybe,” he says simply. Still water to her burning fire. Old familiar roles.  

She wrings her hands together, buying time to bring the anger under control. “Why?” she says eventually. It’s a testament to how much she values his opinion, he supposes, that she even deigns to try and see things from his point of view. “Why would I do that?”

“They’re the only ones that know what really happened. It can’t hurt in a situation like Will’s to have the full picture. And… they owe it to you.”

Her face falls a little further and he hates himself for bringing the money into it, he really does. It’s a cynical move. But he can’t bear the thought of her toiling away just to line the pockets of some Chicago quack, and Owens has been surprisingly open about how they’re managing their basement monstrosity. He might be Will’s best chance.

“I’ll think about it,” she says stiffly.

“Okay.” He knows better than to press the issue.

And better than to heap more troubles at her door. Joyce has enough on her plate right now without worrying about him and El out there in the woods—

“Hey, Jim.”

“Bob.” It takes a surprising amount of effort to bite down on the words that make up the rest of Newby’s high-school nickname. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m good, Chief. I’m good.”

He looks a little awkward. Hopper can’t figure out why - until Joyce coughs, very quietly, and understanding dawns. Can’t quite stop himself from meeting her eyes, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at her crimson cheeks. “Lunch date, huh?” he teases.

Now Bob is blushing too. “Not exactly a date,” he laughs, nervous. “You’re welcome to join us if—”

“I’ve already eaten,” Hopper lies, standing. “You guys have fun.”  

He doesn’t look back – not until he’s safely in the Blazer, at least. She’s laughing at something Bob’s said. Really laughing, a joy on her face he can’t remember seeing in… well, in a long time. He sighs, turns the ignition. There’s a weight in his chest; a feeling he might once have called jealousy. Squeezed, these days, between too much worry and aching sadness to be worth fully registering.

He pulls out, onto the road out of town. If Bob the Brain is the one that’s making her smile these days, who the hell is he to judge? It’s not like he has anything to offer, he tells himself. Other than bad habits and criminally dangerous decision-making, anyway.

He turns off the road, the Blazer bouncing on down the forest track towards the cabin.  


	2. Over

_God, I just want this to be over._

_I know._

It’s not until later, the real armpit of the night, that he realises exactly what this means.

Autumnal bad weather is lashing at the cabin, whistling wind shrieking outside. A nasty draught invades through a gap he’s missed when patching up the walls. The only place he’s likely to find sleep now is at the bottom of a bottle, and he doesn’t do that anymore. Doesn’t feel right when El is close at hand.

Instead he pulls the too-thin blanket around his shoulders and tries not to dwell on her words. Over means… means normality, he supposes. And he suspects that’s never going to be an option for him, ever again. Not while he’s trying to keep Eleven safe.

It’s never going to be over for them.

And he doesn’t want to drag Joyce into that – of _course_ he doesn’t. She deserves her normal; her _family_ deserves that normal. And Bob is…

Well, he’s not normal. But who wants normal? Hopper deals with normal everyday – normal is petty bitchiness spilling over into workplace violence. Normal is living cheek-by-jowl, smiling at your neighbours on the way to work every day —until someone does something stupid, like park in the wrong place, and the next thing you know someone’s having pruning shears removed from their arm.

Normal is pretty abysmal, when you get right down to it.

Bob the Brain is better than normal. He’s _boring_ , and after half a lifetime in one police force or another Hopper has come to value boring. Reliable, affable and kind. Not the sort of things that set teenage pulses racing, but the qualities bitter experience comes to value—

He groans. He wants to hate Bob, he really does, but it just wouldn’t be fair.

  _God, I just want this to be over._

And it will be. They’ll get through this hideous anniversary, and coffee and cigarettes together will become redundant, and… and—

And he knows the taste of that already, has done for years. He’ll be okay. Got other things to worry about now, anyway.

The wind moans, and Hopper shivers, waiting for dawn and eggos for breakfast.

* * *

They hold the funeral on a different blustery day.

He doesn’t attend, exactly. Doesn’t feel like his place to cry at the graveside of a better man than he’ll ever be. But it doesn’t feel right to ignore it either, so here he is, parked on the hill overlooking the cemetery. Can’t hear the priest’s words, but sees the handfuls of soil cast into the grave almost all taken by the wind; dashed away. Watches Will take his mother’s hand as they walk away, Jonathan’s arm around her shaking shoulders. Her long black coat snaps like a flag.

Only when the mourners have left does he feel it’s his moment. Hat in hand, feeling like a fool as he talks to the shining headstone. Needing to say the words anyway. A stumbling apology; a promise to honour the memory of a man who was good and brave and kind… and still died.

He stalks away from the grave, thunderclouds in his head. What he needs right now, more than anything, is a drink.

He goes home instead. Cooks El a meal from scratch rather than a TV dinner; chops enough firewood to heat them through the next ice age. Tries to live up to words spoken to cold stone.

_God, I just want this to be over._

_I know._  


	3. Honesty

“Thanks for doing this,” he says, around the nail clenched in his teeth.

 She smiles, passing him a trailing string of Christmas lights.“No problem.”

He raises his hammer again, knocks home another nail and loops the wire around. “Give it a try now?”

She nods, runs inside to flick a switch. A beat, and the twinkling lights come to life, half-blinding him with the riot of red and green. Back out she comes, surveying their handiwork from an appropriate distance. Clasps her hands together, smiling. “They look good.”

“Good,” he says, descending the ladder carefully, coming to join her. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Festive.” He checks his watch. Still a few hours before El needs collecting from games night at the Wheeler's. “You got time for a coffee?”

“Sure.”

He pretends not to notice her scrutinising his little cabin in the woods, home in his heart for almost a year now, while he makes their drinks.

“You can sit,” he says after a while, pointing to the little table, bringing over the mugs. “What is it?”

She takes her drink, buying time before she answers. “Nothing,” she lies, wrapping her hands around the mug.

“Something,” he says, not fooled. “What?”

She bites her lip. “It’s just this place.”

“Oh. Is it… is it bad?” He thought he’d done a pretty good job of cleaning up before she came over to lend him Christmas lights from her surfeit.

“It’s not the way you’re keeping it. It’s just… Hop, you don’t even have a _bed_.”

“I do,” he argues, nonplussed, pointing to the bench he’s set up for sleeping… Something like realisation dawns as he looks down his arm. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He folds his arms, suddenly defensive. She’s watching him, over her coffee cup, and it’s not fair for her to be so inscrutable when she can read him like a book. “ _What_?”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me about this?”

“Oh, you know,” he says, lies lining up in his mouth. He makes the mistake of catching her eye and they die in this throat. He sighs. “I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yeah. I, um.” He picks at the table, trying to find the right way to phrase it. “You had things that were… things that were good. I just thought if we could get through the anniversary… Things would be better for you. I didn’t want to—”

“Bullshit,” she says softly.

A muscle clenches in his jaw. He’s angry now, but only because she’s right. She’s right, but damn her for wanting him to say it. “Yeah,” he manages, low and soft. “Yeah it is.”

Blue eyes find brown, faces sickly in the orange light of elderly bulbs. She’s angry too. “Don’t… don’t do this.”

“Do _what_?”    

“I don’t know, I don’t know! I just – it’s too _much_ , Hopper. I can’t, I can’t…”

“Yeah? Well it’s not easy for me either, you know?”

“I know, I know! I just… you’re not fair, Hopper.”

“Not fair? Not _fair_?”

They’re both on their feet now, red-faced and shouting.

“You don’t have to do this all by yourself! You can let people in—”

“Bullshit!” he roars back. Pacing about like an angry bear. “Bull. Shit.” She’s quiet now, sensing the torrent to come she’s unleashed. “You know what happens? When I let people in?”

“What Hop? What happens?”  Quiet, yes, but not intimidated. No less angry.

“They _leave_ ,” he says, voice cracking.

“Leave? We leave you? Which bit of me has _left_ , Hopper—?”

“Are you kidding me?! You married Lonnie!”

“Oh-ho, yes! Yes I did. I married Lonnie. _After_ you’d fucked your way through most of—”

“Okay, alright! Alright!” He raises a placating hand. “That’s my point. I’m… not good. I _get_ that. I just… didn’t want to watch you come to the same conclusion all over again.”

“ _What_?”

He closes his eyes. “Bob,” he says, much softer. “I mean… I understood it. I really did.”

Her mouth drops open. “You were jealous.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping as all the fight drains out of him. “Still am.”

“ _Jesus_ , Hopper.”

“Yeah, well. This is why I kept my mouth shut.”

She shakes her head. “Give me a cigarette.”

His beard twitches, in spite of the world crashing down around his ears she’s still making him smile. He does as she asks and she lights it with shaking hands. Inhales deeply, still not looking at him.

“You were wrong, anyway.”

“What?”

 _Now_ she meets his eyes, and he feels like he’s been nailed to the wall like the Christmas lights. “Bob wanted to move to Maine.” Another deep drag on the cigarette. “I told him I couldn’t.”

“Because… because of the lab…?”

“No, you _dummy_.”

It’s his turn for a moment of slow-dawning realisation. “Oh.”

“I’m not saying that… anything like that,” she says sternly, waving the cigarette. “But… you’re pretty important to me, too.”

Another long moment of silence.

“Give me that,” he says, reaching for the cigarette. Breathes his own nicotine rush. “Look. I’m sorry. For, um, for everything.”

“Water under the bridge.”

He reaches out for her, tentatively at first, but she lets him pull her into a hug. So tall his chin rests on her head. “Thanks for the Christmas lights.”

“You’re welcome.” She pats his arm. “Don’t shut me out. Alright? You can’t do this by yourself. Trust me.”

He nods. “I know.” Presses a kiss into her hair. “Thank you.”  


	4. Rescue

_“Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen…”_

The carol singers are well into their set now. Hopper and El watch the Christmas spectacle from the side-lines: the middle school students passing out candles to the watching crowd, collecting coins for the charity drive in plastic buckets. It’s cold and clear this year, their breath steaming in the night air. He’s dying for a cigarette, but some vestige of professional pride keeps his hands jammed in his pockets, nodding amiably at those who greet him. Hours of fretting about bringing El along as she so desperately wanted seems needless. Dressed as a boy, hair hidden by her woolly hat, no one spares her a second glance.

Joyce is watching the singers, Will at her side. It’s not really their scene, but Jonathan is snapping photos for the school magazine, explaining their foray amongst the knitted-sweater brigade. She takes a candle as he looks on, lights it. The glow illuminates her face.

And perhaps this is how things will always be for them, he thinks. Too long a history, too much shared trauma for the trappings of a traditional romance to ever fit. This, this will have to be enough. That she feels the weight of his gaze from across the schoolyard, turns her smile to him.

“Pretty,” whispers El.

“Yeah,” he says, watching kind eyes, sharp cheekbones. “I like the candles too.”

The carols finish and the crowd starts to disperse. He can see Mike and Lucas approaching, radiating the excessive nonchalance of the deeply nervous. He opens his mouth to announce their departure. Shuts it again in the face of El’s pleading expression.

“Hey, Chief?” says Lucas, “is it – would it be okay if El came with us to my house for some Christmas cookies?”

“Max is coming too,” adds Mike, more anxious. “We can say El’s a cousin from California.”

“We have to be careful, kid. I’m not sure—”

“Max has to be careful too,” Lucas cuts in. “Please? It’s _Christmas_.”

“Uh,” he manages, floundering—

“Hey, Hop.”

He turns, to find Joyce and Will have joined their little stand-off. “Hey,” he replies, nonplussed.

“You got a second?”

* * *

“Thanks, by the way.” They are sitting in the Blazer, parked a discreet distance from the Sinclair residence.

“For what?”

He lights her cigarette. “Saving me from being the bad guy.”

“Oh.” She shrugs, blowing smoke. “Teamwork. I told you.”

“Yeah…”

They’re dangerously close to talking about the conversation at his cabin, something both of them are curiously keen to avoid.  He takes the cigarette from her instead, the ritual of smoking welcome distraction.

“I thought you were quitting?”

“I am. Other people’s don’t count.”

“Ha. This is _your_ bad habit, not mine.”

“One of the many,” he agrees.

“Don’t – don’t get all gloomy.”

“What?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Well… almost.”  

“Let’s just be glad for what we’ve got, hm?”

“Yeah,” he manages, suddenly dry mouthed under her gaze, “I am.”

Silence descends, not uncomfortable. “What’re you doing for the big day?” she asks after a while. Stubs out the cigarette.  “Working?”

“Yeah, most of it.”

“El’s welcome at ours. You know, if you’d rather she wasn’t alone.”

He nods. “I’m sure she’d like that.”

She rubs his shoulder affectionately. “Hop… are you-are you alright?”

He turns to look at her, to lie. It’s always a mistake. “No,” he says.

She just nods, like it all makes sense, her forehead coming to rest against his. “You’re doing good.”

“Am I? I feel like I’m just making things up as I go along.” 

A chuckle at that. “Isn’t that just being a parent?”

“I dunno. It was all much more… straightforward before.” He can’t elaborate, he’s not sure he can trust his voice not to crack. Doesn’t need to. She takes his face in her hands, strength in her grip underneath the tenderness. Last time she did this he was half-dead in a tunnel somewhere.

“Hopper,” she says, “you can do this. Okay? Every day it’s going to get a little easier. For both of us.”

He wants to kiss her in that moment, he really does. Puts his hands to hers instead and brings them to his mouth. His lips graze her knuckles, chaste substitute, and he lets her go. “I know,” he says thickly. “I know.”


	5. Break

Christmas is a busy day for cops, even small-town ones. He’s late returning to the Byers’ house; later than he planned for, hoped for. Next year it’ll be different, he tells himself. Next year he won’t have to cover shifts, pretending there’s no one at home waiting for him. Next year he can be honest and enjoy every single second of El opening presents and pulling crackers—

It feels a long time away.

His boots crunch on leaves coated in heavy frost. He raises his fist to knock on the door, and Joyce opens it before his hand touches wood.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“Someone has a present for you,” she smiles. “I let her stay up a little late so she could give it…”  

“Thanks.”

She’s half asleep on the sofa, looking so much younger than her years. Stirs when he enters, holding out her arms to receive a bone crushing hug. “Late,” she chides.

“Yeah kid, I know. I’m sorry.” He lets her go, somewhat reluctantly. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes,” she says, in that solemn way she had. “We had Christmas.”

There are still scraps of wrapping paper to be picked up, bits of cracker, and a huge pile of washing up in the kitchen sink. “I’ll bet you did,” he says. And he tries not to think of the other Christmases he’s been a part of today; the wrecks on icy roads and arguments that spilled over into violence. Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Men, his _ass_ —

“I have a present for you.”

“Oh?” He’s intrigued as to what it can possibly be, her shopping opportunities fairly limited, for the moment. The packet is childishly wrapped with too much tape and bulky tissue paper. In his eyes, no store-wrapped box could ever be finer. He gives the present a gentle shake, pretending to listen carefully to the noise. “I wonder what it could be?” he teases.

It’s a bracelet, like the blue bands he’s given to her, but wound in leather. He holds the circlet in his hand and tries— _really_ tries—not to cry like a child.

“Do you like it?” she breathes, anxious.

“Yeah,” he says, coming back to himself enough to ruffle her hair in thanks. “Yeah. I love it.”

He holds out his arm, so she can tie it around his wrist. “Pretty,” she says. It’s a favourite word.

“Happy Christmas kid.”

“Happy Christmas.”

* * *

Later, he brings his plate into the kitchen, where Joyce is making headway against the mountain of washing up. “Thank you,” he says, the re-heated Christmas leftovers just about the best thing he’s ever tasted by this point of the evening.

“You’re welcome.”

He picks up a tea towel without prompting, helping her finish the drying. She puts the last plate away and roots in a different cupboard for a dusty bottle, a pair of glasses. Together they sink into the worn sofa and she pours their first drink.

“Next year,” he says, draining amber liquid, “next year - _I’ll_ cook.”

She winces at the burn from her own alcohol. “At the cabin? On that little hob?”

“Maybe,” he says, defensively. “Or maybe I’ll buy some place in town.”

She sniffs. “Sure. Up on Maple Street, maybe. Get yourself that white picket fence.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.” It’s starting to feel like a real argument, despite the lack of sense. “I can see us fitting in really well amongst the Wheelers and the Blackburns.”

“You’re going to have plenty to do with the Wheelers as it is,” she reminds him.

“I could say the same to you." She makes a face. "Hey. You _like_ Nancy.”

“Yeah, I know, but Karen and Ted are…”

“...Karen and Ted.”

“Exactly. And… oh, I don’t expect you to understand this but… well, Nancy’s the reason my boy isn’t here tonight. And I like her, I do, and I’m happy they’re happy of course…”

“But he’s still your little boy?”

“Yeah, a little bit!” She gives him a suspicious look. “How’d you know that?”

“My mother,” he replies, smiling into his beard, “said something similar. When she finally found out about the debate team debacle.”

“Yeah. Well, there you go – I could have it so much worse.” She’s smiling too now, in spite of herself. “Jonathan may be a tough cookie to crack but at least he’s not…” She waggles a hand, trying to give shape to the invisible dough of her thoughts. “…you know…”

He has no answer to that; pours them another glass each instead. “Merry Christmas?” he tries.

She clinks her glass against his. “Merry Christmas,” she agrees, and they drain their second shot.

His fingers are twitching. “Do you have—?”

“No,” she admonishes. “Quitting, remember?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I’m dieting and trying to get more exercise.”

“El said you’ve been going running.”

He frowns. “The kid barely speaks, and she told you—?”

“Hey,” she says, poking him. “I’m _nice_ to her so she talks to me.”

“Huh.” He puts his arm around her skinny shoulders instinctively as they settle back into the sofa. “Is that how it works?”

“You should try it sometimes,” she says, pouring out another drink.

“I’ve found the gruff monosyllabic thing works pretty well…”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

His head is buzzing a bit now, as he finishes his third shot, the warmth of her against his side deeply pleasant. And it’s a fantasy, this little slice of domesticity; one that should never have been his—

And the guilt is back, with the thought of Bob. But it freights a little perspective this time, a little willingness to cut himself some slack. He’d never have wished for this, not knowing the cost, but it doesn’t mean he can’t still enjoy the moment.

He turns his head to look at her. “I am grateful, you know.”

She reaches up to touch his cheek affectionately. “I know.”

And there it would normally end. Only this time her fingers linger for a moment too long on his face, something unreadable in her expression. This time he doesn’t turn away, back to the festive chaos on the coffee table. Instead they are frozen, almost nose to nose. Something inexorable pulling him down, down towards her. If she would just turn her head, or drop her gaze or… anything really… he’d stop. He knows he would. Instead, dark eyes bore into his skull, until his nose _does_ brush hers and they flutter closed.

He kisses her. If you can really call it that. His mouth ghosting across hers, his own eyes closing, scared of her response—

She presses her lips against his, a small thing, but absolutely real. He kisses her again, and again; and he can hear her breathing hitch as his mouth moves against hers. Lips parting under his, tasting him. Hands finding his face, tangling in her hair.

Her fingers move to the neck of his shirt, in under his collar. It feels electric, in a way he thought he’d forgotten. His own hand smoothing a line down her back, from neck to waist, pulling her against him—

She fumbles open his top button, then the second, and he understands with absolute clarity there’s no turning back from this point, no stopping.

“Bed?” she breathes, into his mouth.

He doesn’t need telling twice.


	6. Release

She closes the door very firmly behind them, moves to turn on one of her lamps. He feels an intruder in this private space if he’s honest. Out of place and awkward with his shirt half unbuttoned. Last time he was here—

She puts her arms around his neck and kisses him again, curtailing that maudlin line of introspection. It’s pathetic really, how badly he wants this; wants her. Gasping and shaky with need, over a kiss.

His shirt is open now, all the way down, and she tugs his undershirt out of his belt. “Off?” he manages, between kisses.

“Uh-huh.”

His stomach turns a somersault, something he’s pretty sure hasn’t happened since about 1959. Still, there’s just enough of his personality left functioning to retort: “Turnabout is fair play.”

She’s grins back at that. A wicked smile, of the sort he thought only existed in hazy high school memories. By the time he’s extracted his head she’s standing shirtless too. And there are words he should probably be saying; things like _god you’re beautiful_ or other such clichés. But all that’s really in his head is _please_ and he’s still got some pride. He kisses her again instead, trying to map every inch of her body with his hands, his mouth, as she does the same. At some point her heels find the edge of her bed and he tips her over backwards, onto the mattress.

If he was looking for the upper hand in doing so, he’s made a grave error. Her fingers dip under the waistband of his pants, tracing patterns against the skin of his hip. Maddeningly close to where he wants them; never actually touching—

She arches into him and he swallows a moan. “Off,” he says, in its place. It comes out as more of a growl. 

She shivers. “Off?”

“Uh-huh.”

He works her buttons, she undoes his belt. There’s an awkward moment, where he tries to pull off his pants and socks in one fell swoop and gets his left foot stuck. To her credit she doesn’t laugh. Waits until he’s finished being ridiculous, and wriggles back underneath him. This time when she arches into his kiss she rolls her hips, finding the right angle for him, letting him push inside.

He really _does_ moan this time, quiet companion to her soft gasp. He’s already too close. Tries to remember the old tactics, like counting backwards from one hundred with each thrust. But he’s out of practice and her presence is just too intoxicating—

She stills underneath him, reading his fraying rhythm. “Turn over,” she whispers.

He does as he’s told, a moment of cooling sweat on his bare skin bringing semblance of clarity. Then she straddles him, one hand braced against his chest, the other raking in his hair. He finds his fingers are dug into her hips, gripping painfully tight. She doesn’t seem to mind, rocking back and forth on him with increasing urgency.

She bites her finger when she comes, to stop herself from making a sound. It might just be the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, and he follows her straight over the cliff-edge.

A breathless moment in the soft light of her lamps, before she collapses down onto him. Slick with sweat; spent. He feels the ticking beat of her heart through his own chest, gradually slowing down to something like normal.

“Hopper,” she whispers.

He expects her to order him out of her room now, back to his bed on a sofa. He won’t protest. Can’t quite get his mouth around words just yet, in any case. “Mm?”

She breathes a laugh at his muddled response. “Will you stay?”

“Here?” he whispers back. “Yeah.”

Normally he’d make a crack about her mattress being better than the sofa cushions, but self-preservation instincts have kicked in. Instead they disentangle themselves, rearrange her sharp elbows and his excessively long legs into something like a comfortable position for sleeping.

“Night,” she says.

He kisses the tip of her nose, making her smile shyly. It’s a small thing, but it fills him with warmth from head to toe. “G’night.”

* * *

He wakes in unfamiliar dark, fear catching in his throat for a second, until his brain fills in the blanks. Soft mattress, warm bed, warm body next to him—

“Hey,” she says, “You awake too?”

“Mmm,” he manages. “Barely.”

She chuckles. “Go back to sleep then.”

“What time is it?”

“About six.”

He groans softly, theatrical enough to make her laugh. He takes his chance to scoot closer. To his surprise she willingly burrows into his arms, burying her face in his neck for a moment with a happy sigh.

“What?” she says when she withdraws, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing. I like it.”

“You do?”

“Mm-hm.” 

She catches his meaning, her smile turning wicked again. “I _see_.”

And they are kissing again, unbelievably. Her leg snakes over his to find another sweet spot, and they are making love before the dawn breaks. Slowly this time, eyes open. He watches her face flush, the way she bites her lip, and realises he’s completely and utterly lost.

It’s only after she’s bought him to a second breathless climax that he becomes aware of approaching voices. Their drowsy peace suddenly shattered, she sits bolt upright.

“Is that—?”

A door opens, quietly. The sounds of footsteps in the kitchen, the scrape of chairs. “Jonathan and Nancy,” Joyce confirms. “ _Fuck_.”

He wants to offer reassurance, but can’t help but concur with her assessment. “I could climb out the window?” he offers.

“What are you – seventeen?” she shoots back. “Anyway, your boots are by the front door.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he agrees. “I’m sorry—”

“Really?”

He looks at her, _really_ looks at her in the half-light. Hair a birds-nest from his fingers, lips bee-stung from all the kissing. His beard has left red marks on her neck and shoulders, and God knows where else. He’s pretty sure he’s got his own battle-scars, nail-marks down his back and what feels like a friction burn on one of his elbows.

“No,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Seafret's Oceans - https://youtu.be/aqsL0QQaSP4


End file.
